Blue Initiative
by DeathMcGunz
Summary: Overwatch is recalled. Talon is gathering forces. A new recruit could be either side's trump card. His name is Blue, and along with his dog Red, he'll have to choose to be a hero and fight alongside possible father figure Winston, or fall into the tantalizing web of Widowmaker.
1. Red

A limp cigarette in a thunderstorm. Its dull glow reflected on brown eyes. Rain drops dripped from the tips of ragged, black hair. The sun-tanned skin ticked with freckles and acne scars. It was a Midwestern prairie, overgrown with weeds and rimmed in trees. The morning sun hued the black clouds in orange and purple, silhouetting a long figure in a tree, strapped tight to the trunk. He sucked in on the cigarette and blew it out steady.

Big eye in the scope. He scanned the edge of the field as thunder cracked around him without the flash of lightning. His target crept cautious between the trees. A doe. No buck. No children. Solitary and unknowing. Make it easy, he thought. Make it easy and we'll both be better off. She stepped closer to the tree line, sniffing at the grass, looking out over the rainy plains. She wouldn't see him. Even if she did, he thought, she won't run.

Three hundred yards away, between him and the doe, a small watering hole sat choked with moss and beer cans. She needed a drink. The rain had flooded the river, making the deer trails too dangerous for approach. This was all she had.

With one last puff the boy let the cigarette drop from his lips and into the wet grass below, joining the rest of the pack that littered the mud. He shifted against the bark, but it was no use. It dug into his back and left bruises on his ass. Just a few more hours, he thought. Then he lifted the rifle back up and looked hard into the scope. He adjusted it out of boredom and watched the lone doe take her first steps into the field. Without the storm she might have taken her time trotting around the edges of the forest, looking to see if any coyotes or wild dogs were prowling, but the rain and the thirst made her impatient. Good, he thought. Maybe I'll be home before sun up.

Red stirred at the bottom of the tree, opening his sleepy eyes to shake his water-soaked fur. He yawned and stretched his back, moving closer to the trunk to avoid any more rain that he could. "Good boy," the boy said. "Here ya go." A tiny bit of chicken dropped down and red leapt on it. "Shh," the boy said. Red lowered himself and hugged the tree, nibbling on his treat.

Out in the field the doe was running, getting closer to the watering hole. The boy followed with the rifle, hands tight on the sandalwood, butt pressed hard into his shoulder. "Ready, boy?" The pup rose up, ears perked, tongue hanging out of its smiling mouth. "Just a little bit more." The doe stopped, head snapped, keeping still. "There's nothing there. Come on. Just a little bit more."

The German Shepard shook with anticipation. Dirt patches on its fur had turned to mud in the rain. His large brown eyes twitched from the field up to the boy in the tree, breathing hard, ready to go. "Almost there," the boy said. His finger hovered over the trigger. His thumb flicked the safety off. One deep breath in and none out. Left eye opened on the field. Pressing hard into the tree, letting it cut into him, hugging him with pain.

It was a long moment of stillness. Nothing moving but the rain running down the pup's fur, or tracing around the boy's twice-broken nose. Thunder held itself in the clouds, too nervous to make a sound.

Then it cracked with a gunshot and the paws of the pup smacking the wet mud. The doe didn't go down and it turned and ran. The boy fired again, three times in rapid succession, then unstrapped himself from the tree, leapt down, wobbled on the landing, and took off after the dog. Red leapt over a fallen log and barked into the rain as he ran through the grass that covered him. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, slapping against the side of his head.

Heavy steps. Heavy breaths. Rifle slung. The boy ran letting the wet grass brush his jeans. Long corduroy jacket flapping behind him, the water soaked into the fabric making it weight as much as him. Old boots letting water in, soaking his socks, not gripping in the mud and puddles. "Get 'em, Red!" The dog barked in reply.

The doe kicked up out of the field and into the trees. Red followed suit. When the boy got there he lifted his rifle and checked the scope. Both animals were out of sight. The leaves and bark and mud all blended together in a brown mess that made it hard to discern anything. Shouldering the gun, he looked at the ground. Paw print, blood trail. Moving slow, he followed into the thick.

It was a long trek with the rain obscuring the blood and the paw prints slowly dissolving into more solid ground. At a certain point, near a tall oak tree, the boy whistled, and in return Red barked and came running. He looked happy, like he had done something good. The boy ruffled his head and followed the direction from whence he came.

Lying in the tall grass, the dear wheezed its last breaths. The boy stood over it and looked at it, watching the life slip from it, like twine unraveling. He knelt and placed a hand on his face, to let it feel warmth one last time. And as it passed, he scratched Red's butt and removed a treat for him. Red sat and accepted it, taking it a few yards away to eat it in peace.

Though it was just a doe, it was still as big as the boy, with more muscle than them. Carrying it back home would be no easy feat. So he unslung his pack and his rifle, fixed them both to Red, and knelt down to grab the deer. Using the fireman's carry, he hefted the carcass onto his shoulder, turned and marched.

The rain continued for the hour long walk. They passed through the moor, dipping around to the waist high swamp, and crossed a prairie flooded by rain water. Over the old coal mines that dotted the hills and through a junkyard that was nothing but old treasures turned to rust. At the edge of that junkyard, a gravel path twisted through an iron gate up the road to a dead house, rotting from the inside out. Next to it, across the uncut grass, was a rustic shed made of sheet metal and cheap wood. The boy stopped at the edge of the gravel road and stared at the hut. When he left it earlier that morning, he had secured the door with a padlock from the inside, knowing that he could climb onto the roof and get in that way. Homeless would sometimes wander this way thinking the big house had food, and he didn't want his hut being squatted on. The last thing he wanted was to have to fight some old, drunk army vet for the right to sleep under the roof he grew up under. But now, in the dull glow of storm clouds and morning sun, the door was ajar.

He slung the deer into the grass and removed the rifle from Red. Scoping in he saw that the door wasn't busted, just opened. There was no movement inside. "Stay," he said. Red took a seat as the boy moved forward. At the porch to the dilapidated house, he crouched and got another close look with his scope. There was still no movement. The look seemed unbroken, but opened. Somebody knew what they were doing, he thought, and decided against further caution by standing up tall, gun raised and pointed, and moved straight at the hut.

His heart picked up as he got to the door, listening, pressing his ear to the sheet metal and hearing nothing but the wind whistling through the field. Slow breath in, safety off. One step put him in the doorway, turning his gun left then right, sweeping the small, five-foot diameter shack. Tools lined the walls, rusty and useless. A rickety desk sat against the back wall. There were several knives and rabbit pelts scattered on it. In the left corner, nearest the door, a pile of hay and a torn up coat made a bed for Red.

Sitting in the center of all of this, a box wrapped like a Christmas present, topped with a little bow and a card. The boy cocked his head. The gun lowered slowly to his side. Looking away from the box he checked his lock. Still worked. Checked under Red's bed. The key was present. Checked his roof hatch. There were no signs of entry. Someone picked his lock. Why?

Red watched from a hundred yards back. After checking the hut, the boy whistled for him and he came trotting up. Normally he'd go right inside and onto his bed. But this time he came in and went straight for the box, sniffing it, circling it. Licking it made him reel back and shake his jowls to rid himself of the taste. "Sit," said the boy. Red didn't listen. He made another circle and pawed at it, knocking it onto its side. It made a noise like something small was inside it. "Damn it, Red. I said sit." The boy moved up and Red backed away.

"Lay down." Red growled. "Lay. Down." Turning his head away, the pup laid down on the dirt floor. The boy reached into his pocket to give him another treat, but his hand came out empty. He looked down at the pup and kneeled next to him. "Good boy, good boy. I'll find you something."

Staying on his heels, he turned to the box and picked it up, turning it over in his hands, listening to something clunk inside. The box was solid cardboard and whatever was inside was metal. The boy could tell by the sounds. He could tell is was small enough to fit in his palm and couldn't be thicker than an empty wallet.

The card he removed and opened. "Happy birthday," it read on the front, along with a picture of some cartoon character riding a bike. Opening the cover, a card slid out and hit the dirt. The boy bent to pick it up as he read what was inside. "For Blue and Red. Don't spend it all in one place", in blue ink and fancy handwriting, no signature. The card was a credit card. It wasn't Mastercard or Visa. It had its own unique label. One easily recognizable by all. It stood for Overwatch.

Why? He thought. Red had gotten back up and nudged the box with his nose. When Blue turned, the pup backed away. "It's okay, buddy. You just gotta listen when I say to lay down." Red laid down. "Good boy," he said, and pet him on the head and scratched under his jaw.

The box was wrapped tight and elegant, with patience and thought. The actual construction of the box was solid as well, almost like a faux-wood. It smelt hand crafted, and when he put his nose to it, he could smell a long hint of perfume buried deep. It was salty water crashing into a sand castle on a hot day.

Inside the box there was a small holo-disk, commercially used to sending pictures to people, but this one wasn't purchased at Wal-Mart. It was made of metal, not plastic, and given a blueish tint to it. On the bottom, emblazoned in orange, another symbol of Overwatch. It was military grade hardware. Blue looked at it and the card. Someone broke into this hut to put this here for me, he thought. I'm being watched.

Both items fell into the dirt as Blue grabbed his rifle and aimed it out the door into the trees. He scanned passed the trunks in front of him, looking for reflection in scopes, waiting to see a sniper placed in a ghillie suit under a pile of inconspicuous leaves, finger on the trigger, ready for a moment. Then he looked up into the cloudy sky. Could they see me right now? He thought.

He turned back inside as Red sniffed at the holo-disk. There wasn't much to pack up, but he opened his pack and shoved all the knives and random tools he could in. No food, no water—the deer. Fuck, he thought. The deer sat a football field away in the grass, just waiting for a coyote to come pick at it, or for the vultures to swoop in. He couldn't carry it with him, not for an extended journey. He'd have to leave it. Hope for food elsewhere.

Red's snoot pressed into the holo-disk and it sparked to life. "Hello," it said. "You're probably wondering about the gift." A large Gorilla, with small spectacles and large, battle-ready armor, sat blue in the holo-disk's glow. "It's five-thousand dollars, acceptable at most restaurants, retailers, and landlords. It's yours. No one elses. We won't track it. You can take it and leave if you like. We won't follow you.

"What follows is a map. It leads to a location nearby. In this location are people. Bad people. And they are preparing to do bad things to the nearby region. We here at Overwatch cannot be everywhere at once, so we have reached out to you. If you have it in you, look at the information and do your world a service. If you succeed, we will know." The holo-disk flickered and came back in focus. "Good luck."

It shut down, leaving the hut in a black shadow, parted only by the cloudy morning pouring through the door.

Red looked up at Blue with excitement, tail wagging, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Blue opened his mouth to talk with the holo-disk flickered back on, spiraling out a blue, three-dimensional layout of a factory. Three stories tall, littered with red dots and a big gold star near the north side. It spun slow so that Blue could get a good look at it. As the key spiraled around, it said that red dots equaled operatives, and the gold star represented the target. After making another revolution, the hologram shrunk and moved to the side, bringing up a panel that listed operatives. There were fifteen of them, each of them ex-military. Next to each name was a list of weapons they were trained in and how many years they served in the Omnic war. After they spun around, they too shrank and the "target" appeared in its own panel. An EMP, small enough to fit in a briefcase. "Used to disable robotic presence in city," came up as a bullet point next to it.

Red circled around the holograms while Blue stared wide eyed. The blue lines that etched out from the tiny holo-disk, curved and bent like refracted light, breaking into smaller rays that twisted and carved out the images he saw. A masterwork of science and technology, shipped in a cardboard box. As the images rotated before him he looked down at the card, then to Red, and then out into the field, where several vultures were landing near the house, scoping out their next meal in the dead deer. His stomach rumbled and Red trotted over to him, licking his hand. The boy looked into the dog's eyes and then leaned his head in.

"Get your bed, buddy." He stood. "We're leaving."


	2. Blue

The truck-stop diner was the only place that allowed Red to come inside. It's patronage was all mangy mutts, with unwashed hair and clothes stained in sweat, smears of yellow mustard on the chin, unshaven faces just past the five o'clock shadow. They were all road warriors, driving big-rigs and being lonely on the black asphalt.

No one talked too Blue. He was shy past homeless and too young to be out of high school. People looked at him and thought "now that's a sad story", and moved on with their lives. The way he sat reminded them of their own child. The way he ate reminded them of a rabid dog. He kept his head down, hair in his face.

Even Red was little more than a mess of ugly, walking around on four weak legs, with a coat laced in caked dirt and his own slobber. There wasn't a time in their minds when Red had been clean, but he'd always been an attention seeker. So when he'd look at the passerby's, tail wagging, tongue out, and they would sneer or turn away completely, he'd tuck his head into Blue's lap and whine a soft, aching whine.

Every time the waitress sauntered up, looking like a woman who always wanted kids but never had any, she'd pour some coffee into Blue's cup and water into Red's bowl. They'd both lap it up and she'd say, "more to come, boys," before heading back to the counter where several truckers rubbed greasy elbows and talked about their latest lay. She came back out with a gallon of milk, a cup, and another bowl. After putting them down she filled them with the milk. "Free of charge," she said, her hand on Blue's shoulder. He looked up at her, eyes somewhere between rage and fear. Her cheeks stayed rosy, her eyes kind. "Can I help you with an appetizer?"

Blue looked over the menu. Red looked up at him, breathing hard. "Just a burger."

"Well that is an excellent choice. Would you like it to go, or are you dining in?" Blue looked around the diner. It was a slow afternoon.

"Do we have to go?" His voice was matter-of-fact. His hand was already on his bag.

"No, sweetie," she said. "Do you want fries with that? We also have onion rings or a baked potato."

"I've never had onion rings," he said.

"Really?" She smiled down at him. "Well that is just the darndest thing. You're getting some onion rings. I tell you what, these cooks can be lazy sometimes but when they make onion rings they are at full mast."

"Thanks, ma'am."

"You can call me Shirley," she said. She was tall, too tall, and wide at the hips. "My mom's name's ma'am."

"Thank you, Shirley."

"It's not a problem."

"I'm Blue," he said.

"That's a very nice name." She reached her hand down to the pup, letting him sniff her and lick her. "And what's this little guy's name?"

"Red," he said.

"Well I'll be…Red and Blue? I'm sorry, that's just the most adorable thing I ever done heard of. He is the cutest little guy I've ever seen. What is he?"

"Shepard, I think."

"I bet he's a right pain in the ass ain't he?" Blue smiled. "How old's he?"

"He's a year…two years? I don't know." Blue looked away.

"Well he's just adorable." She leaned towards him, using a baby-voice. "Isn't it? It's he?" Red nuzzled into her hand as she scratched him. Blue felt the heat from her body as she got closer. Her skin was milky white with big, rosy cheeks, like a doll who gained a few pounds. She was older, almost thirty or so, but the way she held herself made her seem like a child, like her mind was still innocent.

"I'll get you that burger, Blue." She stood and smiled so generously it made Blue blush.

"Thanks, ma'am."

"Shirley."

"Thanks, Shirley." While she was gone, Blue looked out the window into the dreary city street. He thought about the deer in the field, being picked apart by vultures. They'd be there for a week, pecking and clawing at it, picking muscle and skin until only the bones were left. They never left scraps or remnants, just skeletons.

Thunder continued in the clouds. The sky was getting darker despite the rising sun and you could smell the rain in the air every time the door opened. A bus parked out front and people from out of state, stopping to stretch their legs, got off. No one had luggage because no one was coming to stay. The town was a lost bullet point on a dirty old map. You found it because you needed something on the other side. Gas stations were a buck cheaper but no one stopped because the hand pumps were from the fifties and no regulations were held on the place. It was like walking into a ghost town where the ghosts all picked up bodies and masqueraded as the living. The old drank, the young left. And everyone in between was either dead or dying.

Blue couldn't speak much on the town. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there. He wasn't sure of much to do with time. He kept the birthday card in his coat pocket and wondered, "is it really my birthday?" He couldn't recall. Maybe a calendar would help, the thought. But he wasn't sure if it was Wednesday or 2020. Sometimes he'd sit for days in a tree, sleeping and shitting and pissing, making it a home just so he could get one shot at a buck or a doe. Before the diner, it had been a week since his last meal. He kept scraps from previous kills for Red, because he knew Red had to eat more than him. Just thinking about Red not eating made Blue want to keel over. It hurt worse than the hunger. Red's big brown eyes looked up at him and he felt so close to tears.

The waitress came back with a fat burger, as big as the plate, already cut in two with gleaming tomatoes, crunchy, green lettuce, with a bottle of ketchup on the side. The plate of union rings were piled high, much higher than the old man at the counter's plate, and she brought ranch and barbeque sauce out in little cups. "Try it all," she said. "I think it's okay for little Red too. If not, I can bring him a little somethin' somethin' from the back." She leaned in to whisper a big secret. "We waste so much flippin' food it ain't even funny. You know, I snatch a plateful every night for dinner. What's another one for lunch gonna hurt?" She winked and Blue's heart melted. Shirley was his first crush. He watched her hips sway as she walked away. Her shorts hugged her fat thighs, and the tie of her apron slipped up, pushing her shirt up just enough to see a little skin on her back.

The door rang as it opened. Several men, all large and gruffy walked in. More truck drivers, Blue thought. But Red jumped up and barked. The men jumped out of their skin. A man at the bar choked on his gulp of coffee. Red gave a long, low growl before barking again. His feet scooted on the linoleum floor, and Blue caught his fur before he dashed after the men. "Red, stop it." He barked again. "Red."

"Shut that dog up, kid," said an old man at the counter.

"Red, down." But he wouldn't stop. The men sneered and headed to a booth near the back. Shirley came out. "Go on, Blue. Take him outside. I'll bring the food around the back." She winked again and Blue blushed before dragging Red outside.

Out under the storm clouds Red calmed down a little. "What the hell, pup?" Blue knelt and stroked Red's fur. "What's wrong? What's going on?" He snarled again, looking into the diner at the group of men. "They smell? Hm?" He panted and looked up at Blue.

The bus rumbled in the parking lot next to them. Blue sniffed the sidewalk and circled Blue. Inside the diner, Shirley served the men some coffee and glanced outside to meet Blue's eye. "Hey kid. Get your dog away from the bus." The bus driver was leaning out the door. Red had followed his nose to the side compartment on the bus, where they load all the luggage. Red barked. "That thing should be on a leash."

"Come on," Blue said. "What the hell's the matter with you?" Blue dragged Red off around back, where the dumpsters sat filled with bags of used napkins and food scraps. Back there, away from the rest of the world, Red made pacing circled, growling to himself. Blue sat on the stoop that led out the back and looked at the brick wall across from him. Probably a laundromat or some cheap, dollar store that sells off-brand pop and cereal. Littering the brick were posters of various things that had come and past. The older the event, the more worn down the poster was, until there was nothing but four corners of torn sheet and four pieces of tape. Near the newer stuff there was a few fresh ones. Looking at them closer they were all for the same event. Held soon, Blue imagined.

Several prominent Omnic leaders were meeting in the inner-city to discuss disparity between the Omnic students and human students. Zenyatta, the legendary Overwatch hero, and several of his disciples were said to be speaking at the event. "August 4th," it said. The air felt like august. The storm clouds boomed with the coming echoes of fall. Looking out from the alley, across the lot, Blue could see the building that was pictured on the poster. It was a spire structure, poking out around the low-rise buildings the town was built from. It's glass walls and cylindrical nature made a stark contrast with the dark brick and square nature of everything else.

Shirley opened the back door and laughed when she saw Blue and Red. "Oh, thank heavens. I was worried you all ran off without your food. Here you go," she said, handing Blue a stack of two Styrofoam containers. "I put your burger and onion rings in here, and I got a bunch of goodies for Red too." Blue opened it and let Red dig in. "Oh my gosh," she laughed. "He is ravenous, ain't he?" Blue looked out at the building. "I'm sure you're hungry too. Go on. Eat."

"What's that?" Blue turned to look at the poster.

"Oh, it's just a thing. They send up posters all the time for their events since you can see it from the window. We don't like advertising for them though, so we just stick em up back here. Maybe the homeless'll drop by for a visit." She chuckled then stopped and turned red. "Sorry."

"When is it?"

"Oh, the thing? It's today, I believe. Yeah, the fourth." She tapped her foot. "I'm not one for that kind of stuff. Omnic's are alright and all. Nothin' wrong with them. But I knew too many people in that war to just let it go." Red looked up from his food, most of it caked on his snoot. "He is just too adorable. How does he do it? Hm?" She kneeled down again, gave him some love, and stood back up. "If you want, we can scrub him down in the big sink. My manager's gone. She won't mind."

Blue cocked his head. Someone inside yelled.

"Snap. I'll be back out." She ran back inside, leaving the door propped open.

Red came over and licked Blue, shaking his head, getting little bits of food stuff everywhere. Blue looked inside the diner. All he could see was the kitchen, but he could hear someone yelling. It sounded like rage. Red nudged Blue's container of food. The yelling got louder. It got Red's attention. He started to bark and stood in between Blue and the door.

Then the crack of gunfire split the air. Bullet tore through the side of the diner, pelting the brick wall next to Blue. He dove to the floor on top of Red, who continued to bark at the door. There were several long bursts, followed by shorter bursts, then silence.


	3. Widowmaker

**Thank you guys for the follows, favs, and reviews. This introduction was only supposed to be 2,000 words, but as you see it's already over 7,000. There's only one more introduction chapter after here, then we can start meeting the other Overwatch members. Hope you dig it.**

A spider web hung in the corner off her apartment and every day she imagined killing it. Flushing it down the toilet, washing it down the sink drain, smushing it between two fingers, smacking it against the wall, pulling its legs off one by one, dropping it out the window, eating it. Excitement. A jolt of hair-standing lighting up the back of her neck every time. But she never killed it. She wasn't Widowmaker, not at that moment.

She'd made it to the city early in the week, scoping it out, walking the streets in civilian clothes. Being normal. Not even pretending. Just waiting. She got an apartment, found a boyfriend, got a part time job at the diner waiting tables, experienced the simple things. A beer after a hard day, sitting in the park in silence. Things that other people enjoyed. But it wasn't in her to enjoy. Not normalcy. Her boyfriend didn't excite her. She didn't feel safe with him. The job didn't reward her; she didn't feel accomplished by it. The beer wrapped her head but it didn't do anything to stop the dullness in her mind. And the park was just empty. It was the only thing that she could relate to. Sitting on a bench for an hour, birds avoiding her, she was connected to that park. But only because it too did not feel pleasure from her company. The only thing that gave her pleasure was imagining that spider in her palm as she jabbed a fork down onto it.

Her rifle came in the mail. It had a letter and she knew that when she opened the letter she would kill. She would not open the letter though. Not until it was time. She slid her finger under the crease of the letter and imagined opening it, feeling the sensation in her gut, the nervousness, like she was about to meet a lover for a date. It was a feeling that feeling that she rode thought eh sleepless nights, after pleasing her boyfriend and leaving him in the bed alone. In the morning he'd ask, "sleep well?" and she'd say "of course, dear," and then give him a kiss before going off too work. Then she'd finger the letter and wondered if he'd be around when she opened it.

For seven long days she held that letter and walked the streets and learned about the diner. Plain, flat, open to the city. Tables were mostly sturdy, even if they creaked. No more than four people on a shift at one time, most of the time only two. Not enough money to constitute a federal crime, but enough to be robbed by someone desperate enough. She wondered who would be on duty when she opened the letter. Hopefully Shirley would be there. Hopefully she'd beg for her life.

When the day came to open it, she sat in her apartment, on the bed next to her naked boyfriend. Her clothes were folded neatly on the floor. Her uniform pressed firm in front of her. She was sweating because they didn't have air conditioning. With deliberation she slid her finger into the envelope one last time, and drug her finger through the paper. The sound made her shiver. Inside was a card, a simple card picked up at any Wal-Mart. On the front was the picture of a cartoon family. "Heard you were expecting." On the inside it read "Welcome home."

Eyes closed she climbed on top of the man next to her. He awoke and tried to move but she held him down with her hips. He stopped struggling, even smiled. Widowmaker could hear his heart. Her hands slid up his chest to his throat where she squeezed tight enough to touch fingertips. He tried to struggle, this time with a violence of a caught animal. But he was just a man. Widowmaker let the rush open her eyes and as she moaned, he died.

Suit up, rifle on, she left. But not before going to the spider in the corner, leaning in close as it sat frozen in fear. With her thumb she pushed it into the wall, feeling it crush. A groan escaped her as she felt her heart kick with a solid thud against her chest. For just a moment her cheeks flushed before draining to their cold, blue hue.

The bus came around to pick her up. It was a normal bus, with normal people, going to normal places. But in the back, four talon operative in normal dress, sat with Uzis tucked into suitcases. Widowmaker sat with them, hood up on her coat, rifle broken apart in her pack. The bus rolled around town, dropping a few people off, picking others up. After thirty minutes or so it stopped outside the diner.

As people got off, the Talon operatives followed. Widowmaker stayed in the back and opened her pack. In six seconds she had her rifle put together ad a magazine locked and loaded. An older woman next to her noticed and tried to call out. In that moment, the driver was up, turning to look at her, and several other people, probably going on to the next stop or the one after that, were all turning. There were seven of them altogether, including the driver.

She let go of the gun and shoved her fist into the face of the old woman. She toppled back into her seat, teeth broken, eyes closed. Spinning, Widowmaker brought her foot up and her heel dug into the side of a young man's face. He spun with blood spurting and fell to the ground. Grabbed an arm, twisted until it snapped, and shoved into another. Knife from her boot, thrown into the driver as he took the first step, collapsing into the street. Gun up, barrel to the back of the two on the ground, as they struggled. One bullet, quiet as could be. They stopped moving. The last two ran for the door but the bus isle was cramped. Widowmaker leapt forward and grabbed the girl's hair. She screamed as Widowmaker slammed her face down against the back of the bus seat then turned to her friend, lover, whoever, and grabbed his shirt, pulling him into a kiss. He fought it at first, but the poison lipstick on her lips slipped through him so quick he died before she pulled her tongue from his mouth.

Thirty seconds. Enough time for the Talon agents to get into the diner and begin. Widowmaker looked out of the bus into the diner as they raised their Uzis and spit bullets into the patrons. Every body that got hit, every splash of blood, or kick from a corpse, sent shivers down her spin. Her eyes were alive with lust. She smiled with a thundering of heartbeats as she felt the life come to her skin once again. Not enough of to go pink, she would always be blue, but enough to make a difference. Enough to feel the leather of her sniper grip on her fingers, or to feel the pressure of her rifle as she pushed it into her shoulder.

In the diner she already knew what table she wanted. She motioned to it and the soldiers cleared it for her, dragging the corpses out and laying them on the floor. Her set up was simple: prone, rifle supported by her bag, scope adjusted depending on the distance. The added elevation from the table was added in, including weather, wind, humidity, and with the distance of the shot, the curvature of the Earth. A little over a mile and a half. Through a window. Up on the seventieth floor.

Not a problem.

She lined up the shot as the men spoke amongst themselves, stealing glances at her ass and trying not to comment on her blue skin. Up on the seventieth floor of the tallest building in the city, prominent Omnic leaders were filing into a large room, flanked on the backside by a wall of windows. Tekhartha Zenyatta entered last, dressed in his military blues from the Omnic crisis. Flanked on his right was his old pupil, the half human, half Omnic ninja, Genji. Widowmaker pressed in on the trigger, letting her rifle charge. Without the charge, the bullet wouldn't have enough force.

"Clear the building. Secure the perimeter," she said. The soldiers looked at each other. Then, in their native tongue she added, "now." Two went towards the back, two out the front. Their guns stayed out in front of them as they moved with precision and meaning. Each step was silent on the linoleum floor. The leather of their gloves made no creaks, no glass crunched beneath their feet.

Behind the counter, a younger woman, nametag read "Shirley", lay in a pool of her own blood. Bullet went through her lungs. She was drowning. One of the men placed his boot on her throat and put a little pressure on. When she coughed he pushed down harder and harder, until there was a definite crack. She stopped moving and the two soldiers continued.

The area of the kitchen was slim, stacked with unclean dishes and cramped with dish-sinks, stoves, friers, and a conventional oven. There was no cook on the floor. The two soldiers eyed each other and stopped, listening. There was a faint sound of whimpering, breathing. Two streaks of black grease on the floor where the stove had been pushed out. A soldier approached it while the other continued on. Squeezed behind the stove was a frail man, no older than eighteen. He shivered and sniveled. He hadn't been shot.

At the back door, the other soldier stepped out into the alley. He saw the bullet holes in the brick, the shredded poster from their Uzi fire. He saw the dumpster overflown with big white trash bags, pierced by strays. He saw wet cardboard in the back corner from the rain the previous day. The last thing he saw was the dog, not yet huge and fearsome, but still with sharp teeth and wide bite, wide enough to clasp around the soldier's neck and sharp enough to sink in soft, with no scream.

The other soldier, still inside, looking down at the weak man hiding behind the oven, fired two bursts into him, the sound of the gun covering the sound of his comrade dropping to the pavement just outside. He didn't hear the terrible sound of a vicious animal tearing out a throat. Or the sound of an Uzi being picked from the ground and slung over a shoulder. But he did hear the sound of his comrade's Uzi as it fired a single burst into his head. He died then.

Widowmaker heard the body thump hard on the floor. Heard the shell casings. But she couldn't move. She had the shot. She needed a little bit more power. "Tst, you two." The soldiers outside snapped to her. "Go." She bobbed her head to direct them, which moved her rifle, so she sucked in a big breath and held it while she adjusted, putting the crosshair on Zenyatta's head, then arcing up and to the right several degrees.

The two soldiers came inside and moved to the counter. In the blood on the floor lay one of them, and out the door, in the alley, lay the other. "Miss," said one. "They're dead."

"I don't care."

"We need to change positions."

"Then change positions."

But Widowmaker didn't move. The two soldiers shared a glance and motioned for the other to go. They played rock-paper-scissors to see who had to go first then they leapt the counter and moved into the kitchen. Something small flew out at the one in front, just outside of his vision. It landed square in his chest pocket. When he opened the pocket to look inside, he saw it was a dog-treat.

"Sick em'." A young German Shepard leapt from the alley and pounced on the soldier in front, tearing into his arm. The man screamed. From the corner, ducking behind the dish-sink, a boy, no older than fourteen, stood with an Uzi aimed at the soldier in back. The man didn't have time to react. He just died. Blue let Red tear into the other one for a beat before putting him out of his misery.

In the diner proper, Widowmaker was just seconds away from pulling the trigger. Her power levels were reaching critical. Scope was flashing red with energy warnings. The gun pulsed with its own heartbeat, so much more alive than the woman holding it. She kept her breath held, waiting for the release of the kill.

But out of the doorway came Blue, gun raised, ready to fire. Red leapt up onto the counter, snarling, barking, not afraid of being seen.

"Your friends are dead," Blue said. "Put the gun down."

"You are sadly mistaken, my cute, little friend." Widowmaker glanced at Blue and, smiling, activated her poison spray bomb, tucked under the counter. It blasted out a purple cloud that stung Blue's eyes and made his skin mad with irritation. His lungs constricted and twisted inside his chest. He dropped to a knee, arm going over his eyes.

"Red," he coughed. And since he couldn't speak he simply pointed. That was enough for Red, who leapt from the counter and in two steps was jumping up onto Widowmaker's table, wrapping his jaw around her thigh and yanking her back. She pulled the trigger at the exact moment and she knew she missed. The pain wasn't sharp to her, the blood was slow to flow, but she cursed out at her missed shot. He breath coming out in a defeated rage.

"Stupid fucking dog!" She kicked out at Red, knocking him back as he dragged her from the table. Whipping onto her back she lifted her rifle, which shifted into its assault rifle state, and she fired at the dog. Red leapt behind a booth and then over it behind another. When her gun clicked, Blue stood, eyes still foggy, heart thumping irregular. He didn't care to aim, he just lifted and let loose his bullets.

Widowmaker stood, fired through a window, and leapt out into the street. Red barked and went after her.

"Red!" Blue coughed again. Red stopped in the street, looking back impatient. Blue went over the counter, catching a glimpse of Shirley lying dead on the diner floor, throat crushed by a heavy boot, blood pooled around her, eyes bulging in grotesque nature. He swallowed the image into his brain and crashed through the door. "Come on boy," he said, and the two of them made chase.


	4. Mercy

Widowmaker slammed into the stairwell of her apartment complex. Rings of stairs spiraled above her up and up for a hundred feet. She turned back and fired blind at the door as she shot her zip line up. When her clip emptied she was carried smooth up into the air, the pleasant hiss of the wire retracting guiding her.

At the top she reloaded and aimed down the scope, looking over the rail. The dog rushed in and she pulled the trigger. A miss broke carpet and sprayed concrete into the air. She let the gun charge waiting for the boy as the dog sprinted up the stairs after her. But he took too long and the dog was gaining fast, so she turned to the neared apartment door, lifted her heel and kicked it through the lock. The door opened into a plain room with stained carpet and cheap drapes that were pulled back to let in the dull light. A couple sat on the couch, halfway through a pizza and some television show. Widowmaker sprayed into them.

The dog slid into the room and leapt at Widowmaker. She tucked and rolled into the kitchen, which had a half-wall separating it from the living room. Across the dead couple on the couch, there was an open door to a bedroom. Dead-simple house for simple, dead people.

She whipped up her rifle and fired from the hip over into the living room. A bullet scraped the leg of Red and in a whimper he dashed back out of the room. Blue, just reaching the top of the stairs, fired his Uzi into the apartment, forcing Widowmaker back into cover. She slinked quiet along the half-wall, crossing into the living room behind the couch.

Blue stepped into the room, Red at his side. The gun was nearing empty but he didn't pay it any attention. He knew how to stay quiet walking through the dead woods, so he kept low and made sure his boots stayed muffled on the carpet. Red kept his breath under a low pant, and his paws padded soft on the floor. After a few steps into the room Blue crouched and tapped Red's nose. The dog sniffed the air and caught Widowmaker's scent with ease. A strong cocktail of black-licorice and fresh blood. With the scent, Blue aimed the gun and sprayed into the couch, emptying the clip through the cushions.

Widowmaker took several bullets, recoiling back onto the floor, returning fire through the couch and the bodies of the dead couple. She crawled back kicking out with her legs and dragging with one arm. She heard Blue call out, "sick em'," and watched as Red leapt the couch and landed on top of her. She sacrificed her arm to his bite and felt the sweet pressure of the pain. He yanked and tore at it, dragging her across the ground as Blue stood up on the couch and aimed down at her.

"Stop," he said, and Red stopped. "Heel." Red let go and sat growling by Blue's side. Widowmaker sat up, holding her arms up, letting the pale blood run slow, smiling at the young boy who bested her. She arched her back and looked up at him with a cunning glare.

"Why does someone so cute have to be so stupid?" she said.

"Kick your rifle over."

"You can't be any older than twenty-one," she said, eyes going down his chest to his waist, where she held for a moment, then down his legs and back up to meet his gaze, which she watched melt into a blushing mess.

"I said, kick your rifle."

"Come grab it yourself, cowboy," she said, pushing her chest out. "I wouldn't want you thinking I was reaching for my pistol." Blue stared at her chest for a beat before stepping forward. He kept the Uzi trained on her head. Red stayed sitting by the couch, teeth bared, saliva falling from his jowls. "Make sure to squeeze it," she said, locking eyes. "Nice and tight." As she said it she licked her lips and in that moment she found her chance. A slight trepidation in his step. She slid forward, hands wrapping her rifle and lifting it up in sniper-mode, barrel pressing under Blue's chin.

"It's too bad, really," she said. Blue's face locked with terror, death pulsing in his head. She smiled her black-widow smile. "I wasn't lying when I said you were cute."

"Red!" The dog leapt forward. Widowmaker tossed Blue back towards the window. He smashed through. She turned and high-heeled the dog away from her. Red whimpered and, seeing Blue out of the room, ran for the stairs. Blue plummeted a story, then another, and another, picked up speed, feeling the air leave his lungs in a long scream. But zipping from above him came a carbon-fiber cable, which dug into his chest and slowed his descent, stopping him three stories above ground. Looking up he saw Widowmaker climb from the window and head to the roof, giving him one last glance before disappearing. Down below, Red came out onto the street and barked up at Blue.

Angela told herself she was only doing it as a favor for Winston. The last favor, he said and no matter how many times he said it, she'd always come running. You'll be saving a life, he'd say, and Angela wouldn't be able to turn away, regardless of how upset his subtle manipulations made her. Dragging her from base camp to base camp, assisting in his suicide missions, healing children who shouldn't have been involved in war to begin with, fixing people with science that had yet to be proven, creating people so mixed with bio-engineering it was hard to classify them as a human. All these things he had her do and she never could refuse. It's the last time, he'd say. I promise.

So it was then that Angela found herself in the woods outside of Eichenwalde. The heat from the German sun smacked her pale skin with burns and left a v-shaped swathe of sweat down the chest of her tank top. Her uniform, old and beaten, hung from her waist by the pant legs that were rolled up to her knees. She wished she had cut her hair, maybe even gone bald, just to feel the breeze on bare scalp. The sunglasses she wore, the pair Winston gave her a long time ago, with all the gadgets, slid on down the bridge of her nose, and her blaster was tucked in the back waistband.

Her boots sunk into mud as she climbed fallen trees. Dirt piled onto her with each tumble she took, or each slide down a slope she had to make. There was no easy way to do what she had been asked to do, and Winston hadn't given her much in the way of direction. You'll know it when you see it, he said. And she hadn't seen "it" yet. Maybe she passed "it", or maybe "it" didn't exist. A sentient soldier unit didn't sound likely in the least.

The further she got into the harsh wilderness, the less motivation she had. Everything became sparse, both in her mind and in the trees. Fewer birds, no deer, less thoughts, and nothing floating up in her memory. Nothing she wanted to focus on. They were all blurry remnants of old missions, of a time when things didn't seem like they'd change, but now, looking back on them, they seemed so far away.

A flash of Gibraltar in winter, with the snow and her co-workers all scattered about the base working quietly, keeping to themselves with cold demeanors and nothing in the air but a harsh taste of bitter defeat. A dark figure in a doorway with bad news. Bright lights at the end of a tunnel. The comfortable feeling of Valkyrie on her skin.

None of it stuck like the humid air. It pushed everything in and out and around, like a dull headache of noise. Angela popped her canteen and drank until it was dry. She was nearing the return point. Any further and she'd let Winston down and she'd owe him yet another favor for him to call on whenever he saw fit. She checked her watch, looked up into the trees at the bright light that slipped between the leaves, and sighed.

Sorry, Winston, she thought. Maybe next time.

As she turned to make the hike back, the tweet of a bird bounced from the trees. She caught the direction in the maze of bark and branch. The only bird for miles. Up high, a yellow blotch in a mix of greens and browns, twittering and tweeting. Its head cocked to the side as it took Angela in and sang its sweet little song before dashing down, close to her face, and off into the woods.

After a beat the bird came back and landed on a low branch, looking at her, it's tweet saying "follow me". Then it took off again, making happy circles in the air like a yellow streak of sunshine. Angela didn't know what to do, but she followed after it, c limbing logs and slipping through the mud. Coming through a twist of tangle-root, she found herself in a small clearing, permeated by sunlight and centered with a large stump, overgrown with moss and roots. On top of the stump, built from twigs and grass, was a nest. The little yellow bird landed in it.

Again, it let out a tweet, like a whistle on a Sunday morning in the form of a song.

And something replied with a song of its own. An electronic buzz and hum that surprised Angela so much she fell back, sprawled on the forest floor. She grabbed her blaster and drew it, aiming into the trees around her. First in Swedish then in English she said, "Angela Ziegler, Overwatch. Come out and stand down."

The stump shifted, moss tearing, dirt crumbling down its side, revealing that it wasn't a stump at all, but an overgrown Omnic. It's metal casing was rusted through in patches. A root twisted up and into the wiring in an arm, and tufts of turf were lodged in various gears. Its head spun to look at the bird on its shoulder, the dull blue light of its eye pulsing as it mimicked the bird's song. The bird hoped and turned towards Angela, guiding the machine's head. When it landed on Angela, is beeped and booped at her, cocking its head to analyzed her, seeing her eyes, blood pressure, heart rate, and her blaster.

Angela looked around her and saw that, despite her perceptive nature, the heat of the forest or the duration of her journey had made her miss a very important clue. In the clearing were the remnants of brush and trees, all destroyed in a viscous manner, torn apart into tiny chunks and sawdust. Scattered about the wreckage were shell casings, numerous like fallen gold leaves.

It didn't take but a moment to understand. She took that time to look at her blaster.

The Omnic's blue glow shifted to a crimson so deep with anger that its casing heated. The bird nest shattered and the bird took to flight as the robot shifted and twisted its configuration, head going down, legs going flat, arms tucking in, and its back flipping forward, revealing its crust-ridden Gatling gun. It gave a low whir and unleashed a torrent of bullets.

Thanks to the rust, the gun fired off to the right and had trouble turning, giving Angela enough time to jump to her feet and dash towards the trees. A mechanic arm raised up and buzzed electricity at the rust, breaking it off, repairing the machine as best as it could. The gun whipped towards the trees as Angel dropped to her knees and put her face down in the mud. A thousand bullets tore through the tree she was behind, shredding it and the trees around and behind it. Bits and wood fell on her and splintered against her skin and into her hair. She clinched her eyes tight and kept her hands over her head. The sound was deafening and when the gun stopped firing, the sounds echoed through the trees. The machine clicked and clanked as it reloaded.

Angela peeked over the remnants of the stump. The Omnic soldier spun around, surveying its surroundings. Once it figured it was safe it transformed back into its regular state. It was then, as it stood there, looking at the destruction it had caused, that Angela recognized it. She had healed many wounds from Omnics of the same design. A Bastion unit, created as a frontline soldier. Their guns had torn through normal soldiers during the war. If it weren't for Reinhardt…

The Bastion unit twisted its body to match its legs and rushed off into the trees. Angela stood and watched it disappear. The tweet of the bird came from above as it dipped down from a branch and landed on her shoulder, a twig sitting in its mouth. Placing the blaster back in her waistband she stared at the bird as it placed the twig on her shoulder and took off up into the trees. She removed it and slipped it into her pocket.

That primate is going to owe me one after this, she thought. Then she followed after the Bastion unit.

It wasn't hard. Its heavy steps left large robotic prints in the mud, and the sound of it clunking along led her on. The heavy damage it had accrued, either from battle or from wasting away in the woods for decades, slowed it down as well. After ten minutes of light jogging, Angela was close enough to see it and it was slowing down.

From behind it, Angela watched the unit. Winston had said he detected an active Omnic presence in the woods, but that it avoided Eichenwalde and human contact in general, which led him to believe that it had overcome its programming, or, that his programming had become corrupted. After its first impression, Angela wasn't eager to approach. It could have easily turned her into paste. But she had been holding a blaster. She understood that. She'd have reacted the same way if someone came upon her with a weapon drawn.

The Bastion came to a stop, scanning the trees and the sky before plopping down onto its ass, like a child. It looked at its hands, turning them over in full rotations, as it not understanding itself or its actions. It wooed a low sound, like a whine, that dragged on until the pitch tapered down to a rumble. The red light of its eye shifted back to a pale blue and it continued to whir.

Angela's heart sank deep into her. It was crying. Its head bobbed a little with its mechanical sobs, the body shook in tiny vibrations that rattled its various parts. It hunched over, putting its face into its hands. It was a sight that Angela had never believed she would see. Something that she didn't even think possible. Sympathy. She felt sympathy for something that she used to help defeat. Not just sympathy either, but a compassion that she only felt for wounded people, people she could fix and save. It wasn't scientific, she couldn't prove it in such a time, but the feeling inside her told her that Winston was right.

Stepping out from her nook by a tree, she raised her hands high. The Bastion turned towards her, its right arm, its gun arm, pointing towards her. She stopped and the unit looked down at its arm, whimpered, and turned away.

"It's okay," she said. "It's alright."

The unit turned its head around to face her, keeping its gun and body turned away. "Oh kay?" it buzzed. Angela cocked her head and a smile played across her face. She laughed a little to herself.

"Yes, yes," she said. "It's okay. It's okay."

The Bastion looked down at its bare shoulder and whined. Angela stepped forward again, removing the twig from her pocket and holding it out. "Look," she said. "He'll come back." As she got closer the Bastion unit turned towards her, body and all. "He'll come back." She was close enough that even an accidental burst from the unit's standard gun would tear her in half. Her body was trembling with anxiety, but she didn't feel fear. She only felt that compassion.

"Here," she said. She placed the twig on the unit's shoulder. "See?" She smiled at the unit and it looked at the twig on its shoulder, whirring and tweeting like the bird. Its voice went out into the trees and up into the sky. It's calling for him, she thought. She reached her hand out and placed it on his casing, feeling the heat of the machinery inside, and softness of the moss, and the roughness of the rust.

"Do you have a name?" The unit looked at her, twisted its legs and stood up, standing several feet taller than Angela. She swallowed, looking up at him. With a whiz it turns sideways and used its gun-arm to point at a patch on its side. There was an engraving, etched in as it was made in one of the many Omnic factories. Blood and rust was crusted in the name and number it was given. "Bastion-ES4".

"Bastion," she said. It beeped. "ES4?" It whirred. "I think Bastion'll do. Don't you think?" With a mouth, Angela heard it smile.

Just then, from the trees, the little yellow bird flew down, another twig in its mouth. It landed on Angela, looked at her, then at Bastion. The unit lifted its arm and the bird leapt onto a finger, walking quick up the arm and onto the shoulder with Angela's twig. Carefully, it placed the twig alongside Angela's and flew off into the trees to collect another.


	5. Tracer

Lena took the first flight from London after the incident in King's Row. Her old pilot jacket hung over her shoulders, zipped up to keep the chronal accelerator hidden as she rode economy, saving money and keeping a low profile. The food was poor, the seat was uncomfortable, and two large men in expensive suits talked across the aisle at each other, getting louder and louder as the flight went on.

She had a layover in Madrid, where she had to wait twelve hours for a smaller flight to the Mediterranean. She used the time to sleep in the airport, head cricked on a lumpy armrest while her legs hung over the side. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Mondatta's head with the insides blown out the back. The woman, the dead one with soulless eyes and blue skin, her words sunk deep into Lena's head and planted themselves there, unmoving with rigid edges that chipped away at her, pushing her further into a dark corridor.

Once she boarded the flight she put her head buds in and listened to a thunderstorm. The rain lulled her dozy and let her mind seep back into those poisonous thoughts. If only her rewind would let her avoid those words, just like she had avoided the bomb.

Through all of it, she hadn't forgotten Winston's call, but the joy she had felt at hearing his voice, at seeing her communicator light up for the first time in years, it was gone. But she couldn't let it get to her. She couldn't let Winston see her in a slump. That was part of the reason for her isolation to begin with. It took a year after the disbandment for her to dawn the suit again. And even longer for her to use her abilities for anything that stupid tricks in her apartment. Running to the bathroom during a commercial break and rewinding back to the couch. Busy traffic? Blink across in a tiny gap. Line at the grocery? Just grab the food and rewind out. What's a bag of chips to an entire store?

So after the plane landed she stopped by a bar, the Paul Oxley. Gibraltar was just as beautiful as it was when she was stationed there. The sea salt stained the air and the sound of planes and boat buzzing around the harbor made a joyous atmosphere. The streets were packed with tourists all the time, giving her new faces to look at and mess with, and the policia were laid back enough to not giver her trouble when she would wear her suit around. The accelerator, she'd say. It's a pain getting this thing off without removing it. Which wasn't true, but no one had to know her secrets.

At the bar she took a few shots of Tequila, just enough to feel the warmth in her face and the lightness under her feet. A Spanish man with a strong scent of fish hit on her and she played back with him. He paid her tab before she dashed out into the street, blinking far enough way that he couldn't see her. It was only noon and the sun was a sweaty mess. Winston would be on his computer, listening to the other Overwatch members as they contacted him and wanted to know what was up. Maybe he'd be surprised at her showing up? Maybe he already knows? She fancied both ideas.

It was a hike up towards the Rock of Gibraltar, so she caught a ride in the back of a transport truck and hopped off before they noticed her. Even with the lift it was a thirty minute, uphill climb and she was soaked when she reached the top and saw the base. The Overwatch flag was at half-mast, the UN flag was torn and battered, and the various other country flags were in severe disrepair. She could see the dust on the windows from far away, and a shadow hung over it like a haunting ghost. As she got closer she saw that a few of the windows were actually blown out, and the front doors hung on rusty hinges. Had Winston been living here this entire time? She thought. Was he alone? Had no one stopped by? Why hadn't she?

I was busy, she told herself. But she knew she was lying. She knew it and it made her feel like trash.

Stepping through the front door brought back memories. Good and bad. Like when she first met Winston after he developed the Chronal Accelerator, when he saved her from an uncertainty that threatened to crumble her. Or when she and Reinhardt took it upon themselves to clean the entire facility while everyone else was out on a mission. They ended up having a food fight instead, using every room and hall as their battleground. When the team returned, they were met with lumps of mashed potatoes and ladles of soup to the face. They were not pleased but they were hungry.

The bad ones seemed to fight harder to the surface. Nearly losing her mind after the crash, nearly losing her life when Reyes showed up, getting a bullet to the gut when McCree snapped. The wound she didn't rewind because when she pressed on it she still felt the pain and in moments of darkness, like the one she was in now, she liked the pain.

She walked down the halls and out into the central base, exposed to the sun and clouds. Debris laid out on the ground, dried blood streaked the walls, door were blown off hinges, shotgun pellets lodged in the steel.

"Gosh darn it!" Steel crashed in the base. The low rumblings of Winston were unmistakable. His anger was adorable when caged.

"Winny?"

"Who the?" A pair of double doors slid opened partway and Winston walked into them. "Flibbin' doors." He pried them open and stepped out into the sun, shielding his eyes. "El?"

She giggled. "Diggin' in the peanut butter again?" She pointed at the remnants on his hands that he smeared on his face. He looked at his fingers, sniffed, then licked them before smiling and running over on all fours. She opened her arms and let him scoop her up and spin her.

"Ah! I can't believe you're here."

"Put me down, Winston," she laughed.

"When'd you get in? Where've you been? What've you been up to? There's so much to show you. How's the Accelerator working? The guns? You seen any of the old crew? This is so exciting. I have dinner cooking, believe it or not. I don't know why I decided to cook tonight, but I was feeling frisky. Please, please, come inside." He grabbed her arm and she ran to keep up with him.

Inside the base Winston showed her around to his new set up which was littered with empty peanut butter containers and banana peels. He showed her the map with all the indicators flashing for the various agents. Some of them moved, some of them were stationary, and most had been shut off, which meant they were either dead or didn't want to be found. He took her to the stew pot where he was brewing a mean potato broth for dinner.

"And this, this is the new thing I'm working on. Just saved my life before I sent out the recall." He pulled up a small steel container which looked similar to Lena's warp bomb. He tossed it on the floor and it sprung to life in a blazing blew energy field, which surrounded them. "It's a force field. So I'll be able to jump to you or anyone on the field and protect them. Or maybe force enemies to scatter by leaping safely inside their ranks. There's so many options." The field buzzed and blurred before the machinery sparked and the field went down. "There's a few kinks right now but I'm working on it. It'll be ready before the first mission."

"Mission, Winston?" He looked down at her, eyes going soft, face drooping.

"Yes, ah, I suppose I might be…getting ahead of myself." He hobbled to his seat which squealed under his weight.

"Am I the first one to—

"Yes," he said. "You are…the first one to answer the recall. Reinhardt responded but was very vague. Torbjorn's active but in Russia for some reason. Angela didn't answer but she's doing me a favor right now. McCree…I don't know about him. Reyes is alive. He came here…he's not with us anymore. Neither is Lacroix."

"They'll answer, Winston." She placed her arm on his shoulder and he smiled.

"I'm sure they will too. They have to. I didn't do this with light heart. There's danger all over the world Lena. I know you've noticed. Things are getting bad again. The world needs Overwatch."

"I was there in King's Row—

"I know." He got up and moved around the chair. "I saw the news…I'm sorry you had to see that."

"I tried to stop it."

"It was Lacroix," he said.

"That was Ames?" Lena backed up. "No way."

"Yes way," Winston said. "She's working with Reyes. They're with Talon."

"Wha—why? What's going on?"

"I don't know," he said. "Not yet. But I'm working on it." They sat in silence for a moment before he went on. "Angela…I don't know if she'll stick with us, but I sent her out to investigate something. A possible new addition to the team. And I've been putting out feelers. There was another assassination attempt led by Lacroix and Talon. This one in America. One of the 'feelers' stopped it. I was…impressed. So we might have something there."

"Winston…I…I can't just…"

"Before you say anything," he said. "Lena, listen. I think the problem is that my transmission didn't go out properly. Like I said, Reyes stopped by and we had a chat. Some things were messed up. London's not far. I think the transmission went through to you because you were so close. But when I contacted Angela, she didn't hear the transmission. This isn't a lack of trying, it's a lack of communication."

"Winston—

"No, no. I'm not done. The satellite is down. It was brought down when this base was evacuated. But I've got it working again. Come with me." He rushed from the room. Lena looked at his mess and his computer and wondered how many days he spent sitting there moping. He did look like he gained a few pounds.

When she caught up with him he was in the middle of a sentence.

"—junk metal. It's so huge it's hard to move by myself and I've been devising a way to make it easier, but it's difficult. I think maybe, looking at your Chronal Accelerator, I can figure it out. If you don't mind, that is. I won't need to remove it, I just…sadly lost my blueprints for it and a lot of other inventions when Overwatch was disbanded. With that I can finish my idea and I can move the satellite to the launch platform, get that baby in the sky and the recall should go through to everyone."

"Winston," she said.

"Lena. It can work. This is not hopeless."

"Look around, Winny. It's just us here."

"Angela will be back soon, a day or two. And I'm sending for the one who stopped the assassination. That's four, maybe five is Angela was successful."

"But, Winston—

"Why did you come here, Lena?" He leaned in close to her, his stern face breathing onto her. "It wasn't to catch up. I heard your excitement when I sent out the recall. You answered immediately. You had been waiting for it. I know you were. Come on, look at me. Look at me, Lena. It's still me. You're still you. I just need your help to get this satellite up and then I can prove it. Come on."

She took a step back.

"I don't even…Winston, I let Mondatta die. I…" He stepped forward and hugged her with one of his huge, hairy arms. She snuggled into it. "I have missed your hugs."

"I've missed you too."

"Gosh," she said. "I can stay for now. At least for now. But if this doesn't work—

"If this doesn't work, I'll come back to London with you and we can fight crime together."

She laughed and punched him on the arm. He playfully punched back, knocking her over. She rewound and blinked around him. He spun, swinging out trying to grab her, but she was too quick. He fell back on his ass and she whipped up next to him. "Still got it," she said.

"You're mean."

"Thanks, love."


End file.
